For over a decade I drove past a striking house in a nearby town. Every time I did, I had the urge to…I was never sure…do something inspired by it. I would say that it’s an unassuming ranch home on a slightly-larger-than-normal town lot, except that it’s painted a beautiful teal with a salmon-colored door.
You might think that it sounds like it has aspirations of being a stately Victorian lady, or that it must be a garish eyesore. But no. It’s a bold graphic statement that looks perfectly at home snuggled in to its established neighborhood. The home was built in 1958 for a local banker and its had several owners since then. I have no idea how long its been teal-colored, but before I moved here in 2008.
I know I love architecture and respond to bold color and simple graphics, but I'm not usually inspired to make things by looking at homes. In this case, though, the feeling was persistent. I just couldn’t bring myself to take the time. I mean, what was was the purpose? I really wanted to translate the shapes and colors into a print or a quilt, but again, why?
I considered making a series of notable buildings in the town, but that was a choice driven by marketing reasons, not inspiration. I didn’t want to work that way or put that much effort into a project I didn’t feel in my gut.
It didn’t make any sense, and yet, every time I drove past, I had the urge to make something.
In 2023 Houston had a quilt challenge based on architecture and as I read the call for artists, I knew exactly what I would make! The house is so long and low that in order to meet size requirements for the show and still be proportional, the quilt is eight feet wide.
I entered the finished quilt into the challenge, but it was not accepted for the show. At that point, though, I didn’t care at all. Not long into the project, I had a realization that has changed the way I see my creative practice.
We don’t need a reason to make something. It doesn’t need to have a purpose. It doesn’t need to be a gift, a show entry, a useful bed-topper or wall hanging. No one else has to understand or appreciate the piece. It’s perfectly fine, better than that actually. It’s healthy to make something just for the joy of making. Just because you want to!
I really hadn’t realized how deeply embedded our culture’s requirement that there be a productive or useful reason for something to exist had taken over my heart. As I worked through that project I felt released. I could make anything I wanted, for no other reason than it made me smile, feel something, or I just felt like it.
The PROCESS of making is as important, if not more important, than the product of our creative work. And this project reminds me of that every time I see it or think of it.